


The Safe Word is: Coalition

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Nick Clegg, British Politics, Clameron - Freeform, Cleggover, Coalition, Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Flogging, Kinky, Lolitics - Freeform, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Purple Prose, Sexual Roleplay, Top David Cameron, community: lolitics_meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 18:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21481090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nick has one rule: no politics.
Relationships: David Cameron/Nick Clegg
Kudos: 3





	The Safe Word is: Coalition

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ, by mostly-reverend. Imported to AO3 for preservation.

Nick has one rule: no politics.

"No questioning my loyalties, deriding my policies, pointedly binding me with anything blue—"

"Oh, spoil my fun," David complains, with camp long-suffering.

"—or using torture for policy-making."

"How else can we negotiate terms?"

Nick stares dispassionately over the steel rim of his square-framed reading glasses, rendering him unattractively solicitor-like. David briefly considers grinding them under his heel, but checks the impulse. For the moment.

Of course David wasn't going to bring work into this, but each enunciation of boundaries makes David increasingly ashamed that Nick expects such naff skulduggery of him.

Tilting up his chin, Nick locks eyes, saying diplomatically, "It's better to negotiate boundaries beforehand, no matter how remote the possibility. This way we don't risk the mutual unpleasantness of ascertaining them ourselves."

David wonders if Nick is about to fish a legal contract out of the heap of papers arranged cryptically across his desk.

Perhaps sensing the friction he's created, Nick half-smirks, tucks his glasses gently into a heavy desk drawer, and rises from his chair.

He offers a hand to David, a script that David is reluctant to follow—David stands on his own strength, and is surprised when Nick thrusts him against the wall, chest-to-chest, breaths mingling.

"And I want you to test my limits," he whispers, lips rustling David's ear like a tempest in a conch shell. He kisses David's hairline, where coiff meets sideburn, making him shudder uncomfortably. "And if you'd like to humiliate me, I'd suggest—" Nick seeds David's throat with kisses, punctuating each with "you could disparage my sexuality," adam's apple, "have me shine your shoes with my tongue," base of throat, gust of humid breath. Nicks works a finger between David's collar and thin membrane of taut neckflesh, "or I could tell you what a brilliant, powerful man you are... while you bugger me."

'—but no talk of politics.' David retorts inwardly, but the full strength of Nick's tongue is wrenching skin from collarbone, and suddenly David's heart sinks to his groin in a steady, urgent pulse.

"Yes," he pipes, meaninglessly.

Nick steps back, smiling that coy smile that is, of course, too brazen to go unpunished. So David gently pushes off the wall, his limbs articulating more fluidly than his media coach permits ("Too effeminate," he says.) Without pre-amble, roughly turns Nick from the shoulders and shoves him against the spot of wall he's just vacated, (precariously close to a framed print of something modern and fractal, probably the flat owner's own work) with a satisfying, over-ripe thunk. That will leave a nasty goose-egg.

Nick's eyes dare him, and David is keenly aware of his challenge. Make them fly open in fear, drop in humiliation, narrow in doubt... Nick wouldn't be satisfied with any less.

He buries his face in the crook of Nick's neck, all teeth, incisors clamping into that gravelly, freshly-stubbled skin. Sucking, releasing—common sense, no marks, but David can make the sorry sod worry.

Nick is the counter-tenor, insinuating slag—but David just loves to wantonly cause pain.

He tugs Nick's hair, opening his throat column, which David tongues so close to the vulnerable, barely-embedded aorta, carotid, trachea—and Nick grabs onto David's shoulders and gasps in sweet tune with David's bites.

Nick's hard, but refrains from rutting against David's thigh—Nick plays the tart, but the self-possessed tart. It's maddening.

More skin—more skin—

David wants to tear off Nick's shirt—it's only Marks & Spencer's—but he restrains himself and, in a voice far steadier than he feels, commands: "Strip. From the waist up."

Nick shrugs off his blazer, draping it gently over the back of his leather desk chair, followed by his tie (purple) and shirt. It's slow, deliberate, languidly topping from the bottom through David's suspense.

Nick has a tasteless t-shirt tan line, which makes David feel justified humiliating him, though sadly mitigates the thrill. How do you demean a man with a farmer's tan? But his (tan) arms are attractively wiry, and his (pale) waist in narrow. Nick stands ready for David, too ready, eyes studiedly downcast, face monkishly impassive.

He could order Nick on his knees to such his cock, but experience says that over-hasty genital servicing makes David feel vulnerable, and doesn't actually humiliate Nick, who thinks it's perfectly dignified to suck a man's cock—there were days when, on the bench, Nick seemed impenetrable. He'd nod his head like a dashboard bobble toy, but his eyes were frank and steel. David wishes he'd wear those eyes when he sucks David's cock, because that coy, through-the-lashes gaze makes David feel like he's being slowly prised open with the flat tip of Nick's tongue.

In those days, David could wank to the most conventional fantasies—Nick on his knees, himself buggering Nick. But, maddeningly, David's realised that there is a quiet, messianic dignity to gracefully taking a beating. You can fuck a man, but you can't always penetrate him.

Inspiration strikes!—

"Bring me that chair," he commands, adopting a more toff-ish tone that he'd normally use, even at his least guarded.

"Of course, sir." David becomes irritated when Nick assumes greater self-debasement than David asks. Just because Nick's the one who's got a brand on his buttock from some Hackney dungeon!

"And don't call me sir—"does he dare?—"Call me Prime Minister... boy," he hastens to add. Just because he can't use Nick's politics to humiliate him, doesn't mean that David has to surrender his own identity. Nick's eyes narrow, but he nods curtly and says, "Yes, Prime Minister," lifting the desk chair in his square palms, back muscles tensing deliciously. Gingerly, he drops it behind David, and additionally pulls up a dark wood (cherry?) coffee table. David knows this game—do over-much, never deserve your beatings. A martyr in politics, a tart in this flat.

David sweeps Nick's clothes off the chair back and onto the floor. "Pour me an Arran Peacock, neat," he says, lazily, settling into a tone that regards Nick like a particularly functional piece of furniture.

Of course, this is Nick's study in Nick's flat and that's Nick's single malt, but David enjoys reminding him that he can't section-off his study from the rest of this crazy world.

Nick obediently pours the drink, still topless, intelligence working frenetically in those bulbous blue eyes. David feels like some decadent sex tourist—in Bucharest or Moscow or some other destitute former Soviet satellite. Mm, he tucks that fantasy away for later. It'll take research.

David plucks up the drink, not meeting Nick's eyes and sips thoughtfully. It's full-bodied and fruity, a bit richer than he'd like (for unschooled palates), but tolerable.

Nick stands awkwardly in front of the desk chair, and David wonders when, or if, he'll take the hint. But it's lovely to make him wait.

Helping him grasp his role, David pointedly reaches past Nick for the newspaper, forcing him to stand unobtrusively aside.

_The Guardian_, of course. He'll have to read through their hysterical drivel for facts.

He cracks the paper open wide, and says, absently, "Order a year's subscription to the _Telegraph_. Or should I make that five?" Well, Nick said he wanted David to test his limits.

Taking the hint, Nick clasps his hands behind his back and rolls back his shoulders. "Your discretion, Prime Minister," he says, with no edge, denying David the satisfaction of knowing when, or if, he's gotten under Nick's skin.

"Just the one for now. Maybe the Mail next year." He sips the Arran again, scanning through Sports, where he's least likely to compensate for bias, and decidedly not looking at Nick.

Nick taps the keyboard, and the computer screen flickers to life, but David halts him—"Use the phone." He commands, no justification.

"Of course, Prime Minister."

Absolute monarchy must have been a rollicking good time—back when you didn't have to justify your whims. Though the contemporary ideology of party politics is hardly an alternative.

Nick googles their number, then rings customer support.

"Hello, I'd like to order an annual subscription. Thank you. Hello. Well, thank you. And yourself? I'd like to order an annual subscription. Of course, David Cameron, Charlie Alpha..."

David grimaces—that was silly and childish and devilishly clever. But Nick still has to pay—"Can I pay cash on delivery? Right. No, that's quite all right. The cardholder is Nicholas Clegg, Charlie Lima..."

When he finally hangs up, David tilts his brow slightly in cool contempt. Nick's courting punishment, probably restless for a beating, but it's David this time who refuses to grant satisfaction.

"Close the curtains and take off your trousers. Keep your belt."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

Nick obeys, this time folding his trousers gently on the desk. Nick's flaccid penis folds out so vulnerably...

Nick holds out his belt to David, but David shakes his head 'no.' Disdain, that's a cultivated expression he'd like to haul out again. People these days are far more drawn to frankness, compassion. Bah. "What do you think will happen when the Telegraph arrives at your door with my name on the label? Don't answer that."

Nick bites his lip, and David retorts vindictively. "Flog yourself, and as you do so, use those clever words to detail just how abject you are, and how immensely lucky you are to be my whore."

"Yes, Prime Minister." Nicks pre-emptively clamps his thighs together and steels his torso. Palming the silver belt buckle, he smacks the glossy strip of black leather against his own ass.

His mouth tightens and David knows it's working.

"Harder," he says, coolly. Nick sucks in a breath, and cracks the belt again.

"Tell me."

Nick is tense, breathing full and heavy through his nose—"I'm not worthy to be your whore, Prime Minister."

"Again," David says, as if Nick were the greatest bore in the world.

With obvious strain, Nick cracks down the belt again, leaving a visible, rising red welt on his thigh.

"I'm not even worthy to suck your cock. I've sold my ass to every man south of Scotland."

"Again!" David's hard, and his hand shakes when he raises the glass again, but he can't drink, just steadies it with his lips.

This time Nick grunts when the belt licks across two fresh welts. "Y-you're like a god" he stutters, desperately.

"Like a god?" David drawls. "Well, that's quite a scandalous thing to say for someone in your position..." Nick glares indignantly, jaw twitching, "...vicar," David finishes, like a dry smack.

It's an impulse, a mad gamble. But atheist or not, Nick performs the role of sanctimonious shepherd to the huddled masses weekly. This shouldn't be much of a challenge.

"Now, remind me—what blasphemy were you spewing? That deserves self-flagellation, I think," but David can't stand to watch anymore. He can carry the wave from here. "Actually, forget the belt. Get on your knees—surely, that's a familiar position for you."

Nick crouches in front of David, brows knit together, clearly dredging up a characterisation, but merely complies in his former tone, "Yes, Prime Minister." He crouches down, kneecaps on hard wood. That must smart a bit.

"You are like a god. You have absolute and total power over men. You can have any man or woman you'd like—you could have me arrested, tortured, murdered,"

David polishes off the whisky, hard as a skull but patient, waiting, ratcheting-up his pleasure in Nick's abject worship. "Why?" he growls, tersely.

"Because you're superior. You're cleverer and stronger and better-connected and wealthier," David notices that Nick's hard. He loves being topped by powerful men.

"Wank," David orders, and Nick complies.

"More, tell me more," David demands, struggling to keep his tone down from a passion.

"You hold the fate of millions in your hands. You can feed them or starve them, elevate them or crush them—the powerful beg for your mercy," Nick's pseudo-prophetic speech rarely rings true, but here, with David on his throne, Nick naked and stroking his own cock, David can finally allow himself the vertiginous elation of his own power.

David fantasises about taking Nick over the Commons's centre table, during a full session. And then maybe George having a go. _Mr. Speaker, my Right Honourable friend is surprisingly accommodating. We'll have no trouble—Ramming—Through—my agenda._

He could come with three brusque strokes, but it's too soon. Foreplay, really, so he falls back into mind games.

"So quick to blaspheme. I should have a word with Rowan about how we ordain you people."

"I can't," Nick says, his strokes slowly sloughing to nowhere.

"Can't what?"

"Play vicar," he says, frankly. "I know nothing about the church." Nick takes the moment's interruption to stretch each cramped leg, which makes David furious, furious that Nick broke the scene. Well, David has no trouble breaking the fourth wall—

"Honestly, Nick, I don't really give a toss about the roles. And did I say you could stop wanking?"

Nick—and he is Nick now. Nick with bristly hair, tendrils of dead skin peeling off his lips, grainy fag burn scars on his belly—a miasma of cultivated male power, careless beauty, ecstatic, deliberate mortification, an idea that works powerfully through David's body. He pauses, then says, somewhat cautiously, "No, Prime Minister. Sorry, Prime Minister" and obeys, struggling to kindle his dormant cock back to life.

Oh, is that the game?

"Put your finger in your ass," David says, wondering if Nick can manage the contortion. But Nick elevates himself on his slightly, like a meerkat, wetting his finger between his lips, and wedging it between his freckled ass cheeks, he's breathing hard and pivoting his thighs, pelvis, struggling for a comfortable position to settle in and just fuck himself—David is frankly somewhat disgusted at Nick's visible loss of self possession, the grotesque angle of his elbow—but inexorably drawn in. He doesn't want to fuck Nick—not yet, but he wants movement, to make that friction that throws sparks, without touching.

David stands, pushes over his chair, kicks the over the coffee table, sending the open whisky bottle haemorrhaging on the rug. Though his glass miraculously survives the spill, he gingerly picks it up, and bowls it across the room like a cricketer. Ah, the satisfaction of shattering glass.

And Nick's eyes egg him on—he's in ecstasy, wrestling between spasms of pleasure and the strength to hold himself erect. It's a powerful feeling, knowing you can destroy things and replace them with something bigger and better.

In one magician-like swoop, he sweeps everything on Nick's desk—important papers, file folder, pens, computer monitor, to the floor. He wrenches open the desk drawer and tosses Nick's reading glasses across the room, knowing he'll need them for the Commons, and delighted that he'll be holding his notes at arm's length, and David will know _I did that_.

Nick groans, thrusting into his own fist.

"Stop!" David commands, surprising even himself. Nick is panting, tenses, but stops nonetheless.

David unzips his trousers, shoving them down just low enough to expose his proud cock and testes under his white shirt flaps.

"Suck me off, Nick."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

And Nick's bitten lips slide over David's cock, deep-throating to the base. Maybe that ass has gotten around.

He sucks like he's trying to aspirate David's come—it's divine.

"Ah—oh—" David moans undignifiedly, but his pelvis is itching to thrust into something solid. "On all fours," he breathes. Nicks nose and cheeks are burnished red, and he's gleaming gorgeously in perspiration.

"Yes, Prime Minister."

David grabs Nick's hair and stares straight into Nick's dazed eyes: "You played the worst tart in history—but you knew that, no matter what, you'd be bummed."

Nick opens his mouth, but nods diagonally—"Yes," he sputters, as fulsome as David at the transgression of his own rules.

David lays a hand between Nick's shoulder blades and roughly forces him down.

He drops behind, swatting Nick's hand away from his own cock. "No! No you can only have pleasure when I permit you. I can fuck you and not allow you any share of pleasure. Understand, Nick?"

"Yes! Yes, Prime Minister," he's swivelled-up into a passion.

David spreads open Nick's ass like a crisp book cover, and is delighted to see the dark twist of his anus tighten under David's gaze, like a jenny's winking eye. Tart.

He fishes the KY packet out of his pocket, tearing the foil with his teeth and drizzling the clear serum over his cock, careful not to stain his shirt or trousers, and onto Nick's spasming hole. One finger spreads the lubricant liberally around the rim of Nick's anus, then gently plunges into Nick's hungry fissure.

"Give me—I need you," Nick pleads.

"Do you, now? What do you need from a big, bad Tory like me? I was going to make you an offer—give me your votes, unequivocal support and obedience, and your ass—but you want to be buggered, don't you Nick?"

"Yes!"

David slides his finger half out, then jabs back in, feeling his sphincter clench for friction around his knuckle. What a sweet, lovely ass, pale skin and a fuchsia membrane, with his finger burrowed in the centre.

"I'm going to ruin you, Nick. I'm going to destroy public confidence in your party, oust you in five years and when you're broken and worthless, I'll take you into my office as a P.A. who I bugger when I'm bored. Because you are nothing without me." David jerks out his finger and nudges in his cock.

Oh, Nick is so impossibly constricting, but he stretches open for David, the surprising elasticity of flesh, the closest of embraces—

Once deep inside, Nick clamps so tight that David feels like he's been swallowed—but miraculously, he can experimentally retract a few centimetres. Elated, he thrusts back in.

Nick groans—and David wonders, with a paroxysm of pleasure, if he's hurt.

"More," he grunts, teeth clenched.

"That's my whole cock, you pouf."

"No—more—harder—"

"You'd make a crap PA, with grammar like that—ahh" David can't mock anymore—just slides back and thrusts in, with Nick rutting his ass against David's thighs. He thrusts hard enough to hear his testes slap against Nick's.

Nick grunts and David's tempted to ram—David's no piston, but his cock is a shade over average, and to see himself disappear down down down with no barrier, no cervical wall, no pelvic floor, just the variegated rings and membranes of Nick, with their unplumbed mystery and alien embraces a ravenous, anonymous well of lonely, crazy sorrow—

God, he wants to come, needs to come, his thrusts are like punishment for this plateau and he's more aware of running, sprinting, frenetically searching for some base, foundation, bedrock—something to break—

And Nick's breath's rasping, and his whole back and arms are slick with thick sweat, and his rectum constricts like the coils of a snake—

"Fuck, David—!" he shouts, incoherently—

David slows his thrusts, making them long, languid, gently drawing out that warm tendril uncurling in his belly.

"Remember: you are Nicholas Clegg, I'm going to ejaculate into you, and it will take all day, in committees, on the Commons floor to seep out. I'm not only god when it's convenient for you, Nick—you're mine!"

"Yes!"

"Tell me!" he bellows, punctuating with a savage, full-bodied thrust that gives little pleasure above Nick's startled yelp.

"I'm yours. I'm yours. I'm yours!"

"Come!" David's shout resounds off the walls. Sod the neighbours, sod Kensington!

Nick clamps a strong, flushed fist around his cock and wrenches out quick, decisive strokes—

"Ahhrgh—" Nick cries out, coming down his thighs and spasming deliciously around David's cock. Yes, bedrock, breaking. David holds Nick still with nails dug into dense quad fibres—his head's in heaven, and in a trance, he gracefully rocks forwards and back, sack tensing, and comes languidly deep into the endless well.

*

They leave via sultry, snaking tube lines, thick with the humid press of sunburned bodies. They stand close, curving together in the bump and slide of light rail inertia, fingers brush on the hand rails, and David smiles when he sees Nick's left his top two buttons flagrantly open, pale chest demurring under splayed collar.

And David wants to say thick, mad things, but doesn't.

He takes a proper look at Nick's raw lips, and a shallow patch of blood where he's peeled away skin between teeth, but it doesn't well, just waits patiently to heal. He wants to suture them together with kisses upon kisses.

Someone's texting at David's eye level, and he knows that someone is surreptitiously adjusting their camera zoom.

Nick leads them off at Westminster.

*

In the silent walk between the tube station and Whitehall, David watches Nick scroll through his texts.

They run into Danny leaving the Italian deli on Parliament Street. Danny's always wearing that wooden expression—at least in David's presence. Maybe he smiles around Nick.

"Nick. Prime Minister."

David nods, but Nick scoots forward, "I've received your message," he says, clipped and purposeful. "If you don't mind a working lunch, I've got twenty minutes."

"No problem."

David's been staring at that triangle of pale, errant flesh through Nick's still open collar. Nick connects gazes, follows David's line of sight, then buttons to the throat. "See you in the chamber."

"Of course..." David says, with an awkward, dangling inflection, wishing his mobile would urgently ring.

Nick smiles, offers his hand. David takes it, clapping Nick on the shoulder, Nick claps back and they linger there, both men's hands simultaneously rest on the other's shoulder. Two parallel smiles well up and it's like—astronomy. Where, in a purely literal sense, crossed stars are really binary stars, locked in mutual orbit.

David feels profoundly hopeful and humbled at the exchange of power. The power of exchange.


End file.
